Innate
by LifeIndeed
Summary: SEQUEL to 'Recruit.' Time passes as Arthur and Merlin survive on the front lines, and plans to invade Camelot's citadel are finally set in stone. When an eager recruit and his reluctant guardian join the ranks, however, tools to fight the true enemy are brought into light: why this war began; why the king is mad. Why the claim was created in the first place.
1. A Battle Ends & A War Begins

**Important Warning: As previously stated in "Recruit" (which you should read first if you haven't, this is a continuation), "Innate" involves slavery, magical bondage, dehumanization, character death and MORE violence than last time, since they're at war.**

 **ALSO: there will be discussion of past suicide and rape. Nothing graphic, and it doesn't involve any of the main characters, but this is slavery. I feel it'd be ignorant as an author to create a world like this and not address such likely issues.**

 **Since nothing is explicit beside the violent bits, I'm still maintaining a T rating - but please let me know if you think it ever goes above that. The ratings are for you readers anyway!**

 **On that note, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I will be dividing my chapters into bigger chunks for Innate, with more time in between updates.**

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 **1\. A Battle Ends and A War Begins**

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Summary: _I know Arthur means well. I can feel it. But I can also feel another part of my soul blackening, even as I consider the idea of standing by—doing nothing as an innocent boy is forced into slavery for life, no matter how he claims to 'be ready' for it._

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A light, spring rain settles over the open field as we survivors walk around the bodies. I can't hear it over the roaring in my head, the blood-smeared chaos still raging inside.

A stupid attack in the middle of the night. Careless, brutal, like the Camelot generals have given up on tactic and are content to unleash their soldiers like one releases a catapult: hoping more to hit _something_ than attempt to aim.

Spotting Arthur is finally what quiets the buzzing in my ears. He's some ways across the field, helping a soldier up—no, it's Sir Galahad, who looks little worse for wear—and directing his men to check for injured. It appears we won't be regrouping and chasing their retreat. I feel the last of the adrenaline sizzle out of me, followed by heavy relief.

 _Count of the dead?_

Arthur's head lifts a fraction, and then his eyes find me. _Oh good, you're alive._

 _Ha ha._

 _Twenty soldiers,_ he tells me as I approach. _One recruit heavily injured, two knights. And counting._

"At least the rain held out for the battle," Arthur says out loud once I've reached him, nudging a body with the toe of his boot. It's a Camelot sorcerer, or was one, judging by the all-black attire. The woman doesn't stir.

I nod. Rain tends to make fighting all the messier. "If we go to the treeline I might be able to see how far they retreated," I turn to him and say, cocking my head at the forest line the enemy ran into.

"Later," he replies, motioning at the bodies around us. "Let's clean this up first."

I nod, crouching down to check a seemingly-uninjured man's nose for breath. His young face is half-submerged in the dirt-turned-mud, body splayed. No older than I, I would imagine. It's no surprise to find him dead.

I don't envy him, but neither do I envy myself, here for the aftermath we living endure. The overripe smell of sweat, the immediate stink of the dead, the slower stink of the dying. Blood, mud, and flies—no one warned me about the flies, sticking to the dirty sweat of my skin and swarming over wounds as they putrefy. At least the rain has solved that nuisance, for the time being.

I levitate the dead body, directing it to land on top of the stack a few paces away. There's a few carts the soldiers have brought out for the same purpose. We pile up the bodies of our enemy's fallen, and we don't keep count.

It is not the worst penance of being on the winning side, however. My dreams fill with a growing number of faces, of voices calling out for me to save them only for their death to again flash before my eyes. I spot Freya a ways off, and send her the question I dread asking but cannot fully relax until answered:

 _Anyone?_

 _None of us._

Freya, Finn, Relaen, Kara and Sefa. All safe, then, all accounted for despite how unprepared we were. Despite the fact I was nowhere near where the dragon landed. That is the single detail that keeps me from the assumption Camelot is only desperate—their attacks could easily be calculated chaos. Considering how many plumes of smoke, black and thick like dragon's breath, flare up in every direction during the recent battles. Too many to fight together at once.

Separating my squadron into bite-size pieces before an actual dragon arrives.

As if sensing my thoughts, as he very actually could be, Arthur asks, "Did it happen again?"

I glance over at him, not surprised to see the tired droop of his eyes. Not exhausted enough to warrant concern for now, then. But it's only a month into spring. Plenty of time to lose sleep. His hair is grown out like mine, long and tangling almost to our chins to keep warm the past winter. It's a darker shade right now, dripping from the steady rain, and I stop myself from telling him to pull his hood up before he catches grey fever.

I'm not his mother.

His eyes bore into mine, patient but still demanding truth, and the corner of my soul attached to his senses restlessness, relief, and concern all in one. "Yes," I tell him, not elaborating further. I don't really need to at this point. _Have your knights send their recruits for another meeting,_ I add, and Arthur nods. His mouth twitches down, ever so briefly. The beginnings of a beard grows on his cheeks; mine are still smooth, for the most part. If it wasn't certain before, it's clear now who's older.

But war has a way of reducing time down to the single space between breaths. Years could pass in between, the moment he stands at my side now and the moment the war's over. Between aliesan and sheathing, when the power of gods is at my fingertips. Everything could change in less than a heartbeat.

Still four have passed since Arthur volunteered us to permanently join the army at the front lines.

"My lord," Freya says formally, approaching us at my right. I realize then she's been trying to call out to my mind for the past minute or so, and I've been too distracted to notice. Again.

She wears the fire-resistant red cloak of all Camelot soldiers, though her small shoulders seem barely able to carry its wet weight. Arthur nods in acknowledgement at her greeting, silently allowing her to speak. Her eyes move over to me. "There are three Camelot soldiers still alive, sir."

 _Damn._ "Are any of them sorcerers?" I ask, already tensing.

"One." She answers it grimly, expecting the next order before it comes.

"Give them the choice," Arthur says, shutting his eyes briefly. "If needed, I can summon the eligible knights." He turns his attention back to the piling bodies, expression unreadable.

"Sir," Freya starts, almost as if to protest. She clenches her jaw and I blink, not used to hearing any kind of defiance from her. Freya's guardian Jethro stamped most of it out years ago.

"What is it?" I say, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. She doesn't flinch, like she sometimes does; she flashes me a grateful smile while Arthur looks back and nods for her to continue.

"Sir, the soldier . . . he's a child. I don't know why he was in the battle, he surrendered right away. No older than eight years, it looks like."

A sound nearly escapes my throat.

" _Eight years_?" I repeat, and her grim nod is enough to make my stomach roll. Because of course, _of course_ age is no discrimination. My own claiming is evidence of that.

Arthur always makes an effort to summon knights closest to the recruit's age since he was given the authority. It's one of his few duties, besides leading the squadron. He hasn't said why he tries to keep the guardian and recruit close in age, though it makes its own kind of sense.

But _eight years_ . . . there is no way to combat that. Only squires would be less than twice the boy's age, and no one younger than 18 has ever been chosen. Arthur was the exception, at thirteen years of age, and the only one so far.

"No one above the age of 24, then," Arthur says in answer. His expression finally gets that slumped, exhausted look it hadn't shown earlier. I wonder if it's new, or just no longer hidden.

"I'll ask the boy," I say.

Arthur snaps his gaze to me. _What are you doing?_

I don't answer, though he can probably guess by the emotions swirling inside: anger, fear, determination.

I wait for his verdict. The times we have attempted, tried to save someone from the claim, have either ended failing or succeeded only at a terrible cost. Except perhaps for the last time when Freya helped; it was all going well until Leon caught us.

 _Merlin, Aredian is on high alert. He already suspects you, if not me yet_ , Arthur says, but it's not a no, and he knows it. _Please . . . let's at least think this through._

 _Eight years, Arthur._

 _I know._

We finish the collecting of the dead, and I set the heap of Camelot dead aflame, covering my nose as the flesh starts to burn. _You don't think it's strange?_ I ask as we head towards the treeline. Arthur frowns, then shakes his head.

 _No. Just pitiful._

 _He surrendered right away, Freya said._

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment, and I'm able to feel the slightest impression of his bone-deep weariness. He's gotten better at hiding it. _Perhaps Camelot is becoming more desperate than we thought,_ he says to me, and doesn't look any more cheerful for the thought.

But what is there to cheer about, when you're rooting for both sides to lose?

I nod, and grasp his hands. "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð." _See_ , and I hear it in a bare whisper, followed by another tiny, warm pocket of myself slotting back into place as I feel the magic return. I sigh and turn to look ahead, whispering the right words under my breath that allow my sight to stretch. I can feel my eyes burn as the picture ahead of me narrows, flies ahead to the still-retreating Camelot soldiers. Many are limping, though as my sight stretches past them I see—I see—

I blink the vision away, gasping as I rub at my stinging eyes. "What is it?" Arthur speaks aloud urgently, putting a hand on my arm. I wave away his concern, straightening.

"I saw where they were retreating to," I explain, shaking my head. "I didn't realize. How close we were, I mean."

"The citadel," Arthur says without help. "Yes, Aredian said we'd be starting a siege sooner or later. I suppose it is to be sooner."

 _Which means Uther will be here even sooner,_ I guess darkly, and Arthur sighs.

 _I wouldn't be surprised if he stayed in the Ascetir Camp this season._

Uther's health is indeed failing him—but I have doubts that much would stop him from seeing the victory of his almost twenty-year-long campaign for the throne of Camelot.

My body feels light, thrumming with energy; his face is extra haggard now, and I know it's past time. _Alright, take it back already._

 _What back?_

I kick at his shin, scowling when Arthur smirks. _You know what. You look as old as your father right now._

He sighs yet again, but finally, finally, Arthur shuts his eyes and everything goes numb for a long, terrifying moment. Despite my best efforts, I always find my head disconnecting. Unable to stay present as my magic is ripped from me. But then it's over and I can breathe, even if my chest feels hollow as I fill it with air. That was seventeen different tokens of my magic returned to me, before Arthur had to close the connection.

His shoulders slump; probably in relief.

 _Not done yet,_ he tells me when I turn to head back, however, still holding out his hands. I interlink them with mine, comforted by the familiar phrase that follows: "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð," and then, _You cannot die. You will do whatever it takes to live._

A hesitant hum of something returns, a tiny wisp of warmth in my chest. Anchoring.

We join the rest of the soldiers, the field almost cleared. The other squadron leaders and generals are further back, heading to our base. Arthur runs to catch up with them. Freya waits nearby as well, leaning against a tree.

 _Commander said they'll perform the claim tonight. He's waiting on the decision_ , she tells me.

 _Aredian the arse_ , I mimic, the term a quiet joke between us. Her mouth flickers up in the smallest of smiles.

I let her lead me to the place the prisoners are being kept, in the middle of our base; her shoulders are twitchy and eyes tight. We reach them, the prisoners soaking wet and all tied to a thick-trunked tree with copious amounts of rope. I raise an eyebrow as the one facing us looks up and gives a shite-eating grin. He has a nasty black eye and his facial scruff is encrusted with blood.

"Time to meet our makers is it?" the young man asks, attempting to flip wet hair from his face. It only whips more across his forehead.

I might have smirked, if it wasn't almost the truth.

The next one is a woman in full armour, who has her head leaned back against the tree and eyes shut. They flicker open at our presence, and she looks between me and Freya coolly. They're a surprisingly deep brown, her eyes; I find I have to forcefully stop myself from staring. I'm grateful she says nothing.

And then we reach the other side of the tree, and my heart plummets at the sight.

 _He's so young._

Eight years is a kind estimate. The boy is not only young, but skinny and obviously malnourished. He looks up at Freya and I with round, blue eyes too big for his face. His mouth is chattering, dark hair flat against his head. A cornered mouse.

 _Please_ , he communicates by way of the mind, and I stiffen in surprise. It took me the entire past year to develop the skill, months and months practicing with Freya. My innate connection with Arthur made the ability even harder to obtain; I can hear Freya's messages if I focus hard enough, but still have trouble finding where exactly inside myself to reach back. With Arthur, it takes as little as thinking—with a fellow sorcerer, it's like calling across a battlefield.

Freya crouches down at the boy's level, her kind face open but sad. _You are much too young to be able to speak like that_ , she tells him, but his eyes don't leave my face.

 _Emrys,_ he tells me. _We're here to help._

I frown, confused.

"I would claim a false alarm like usual," Freya says in a low voice. She must not have heard him. "But most of Aredian's captains saw the boy's display of magic. It killed one of them."

"How?"

"He screamed, and they were all knocked off their feet." This comes nonchalantly from the dark-eyed woman, who I can still see the profile of against the tree.

All at once I feel a bone-deep anger root up, flaring at the bored sound of her voice. "Because he was frightened. Because he's a _child._ " I move to see her more fully, glaring. "A baby. And you took him into a battle just hoping his power would take some of us down with him."

"I didn't," she says resolutely. "That would be a waste."

"Yes it was," I growl.

"Merlin," Freya entreats softly, still crouched next to the boy. His wide eyes are watching our exchange.

I sigh, moving back to the child and resolving to ignore the woman from now on. "What's your name?" I ask him.

"Mordred."

I manage a tight smile at the high, boy-ish voice. "Mordred. A fine name. Do you know what's happened?"

"We're your prisoners," he answers somberly.

I open my mouth and close it a few times, unable to get the right words out. Maybe _That's right_ —except nothing about this is right. I feel all at once relieved and guilty that it is usually Freya who makes the offer. "Do you see these?" I finally start with, and push back the chain mail on one arm to reveal the marks there. He looks at them, then back up at me. "They're from something called—"

"I'm ready," he interrupts. I gape at him. His high voice is firm, steady, resolved.

"You know what will happen?" Freya says, hiding the surprise from her face much better than me. "Who told you?"

"I'm ready. If my friends can be recruited as well," he says simply, and gestures best he can with a tied-down arm. I glance at the woman, who is looking at the young child with a face that betrays affection.

Enough. _I'm going to help you run,_ I say by way of the mind, and I can feel that he received it. Mordred cocks his head with the smallest of grins on his face.

 _I'm not afraid_ , he replies. _I'm going to be like you._

 _You don't know what you're talking about. Your magic is about to be taken away—unless you escape before tonight. In the next hour, I need you to—_

 _No, Emrys._ I blink, caught off-guard both by the strange name and the resolve in his tone. _This is what I choose. _For the good of our brothers and sisters_ , he continues. _Let me.__

I lean back, unable to find anything but wisdom and surety in his round eyes.

"Do you choose to be recruited or do you accept death?" Freya says aloud then, for the sake of anyone passing by.

Mordred really smiles then, and I can't help a shudder at the sight.

"If my friends can join as well, I will be a recruit."

I stand up, at a loss. Every recruit thus far we've managed to save—a grand total of 6 in the past two years—immediately jumped at the chance to run. There wasn't a moment of hesitation, much less lack of desire. I move away, tearing my gaze from him and leaving to find Arthur. The captured woman speaks as I pass, however, and I can't help but stop at the words: "Let us be there for it."

"Are you his 'friends' then?" I ask, incredulous. The young man smiles so wide it might split his face.

"That's right," he replies cheekily, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Our Commander would never allow it," I say, shaking my head. They'll be dead before sunset anyway. Camelot does not keep prisoners; neither do we.

"Do you know what would truly be a waste?" the woman asks rhetorically, eyes bright with mirth. "Killing us when we have much to offer as well. For the right price, I'd gladly turn my sword on Camelot."

"How about your _life_? Is that high enough a price?" I say sardonically.

"Good enough for me," the young man agrees, grinning around his black eye.

"Then Camelot truly is hiring mercenaries," I say speculatively. "Where could you possibly be from? Mercia, Caerleon and Essetir are not in good enough standing with Camelot. Nemeth is weak; they'd have no soldiers to spare."

"Caerleon, though we are not knights sent from there," she answers.

The young man flips his hair, again unsuccessfully. "We swear loyalty to no one."

"That doesn't change—"

"He's just a boy," she interrupts me, something more genuine now in her voice. "We are the closest things he has to parents. Our presence will give him strength. I'm sure if you tell your Commander so, he'd agree to it."

Her brown eyes swim with earnestness. I frown, wondering where I've seen them before. Perhaps we've fought in a previous battle.

"Or better, have your master tell him," she suggests, cocking an eyebrow. "Would you really deny the child his last wish before . . . ?"

I don't answer and turn to leave, relieved when neither of them call after me.

I reach my tent a few minutes later—our tent. Arthur is not here, however, leaving me more room to pace and run a line into the dirt floor. Are the mercenaries just trying to save their necks? Where did this Mordred child come from? How does he know about the claim? What are they all playing at?

 _Where do I know her from? What if she—_

 _Gods, Merlin, I can't pay attention to these battle strategies with you blabbering like that_ , Arthur interrupts me mid-thought. His voice is distant, still at a meeting probably, but apparently I'm loud enough to hear without even trying. It's been happening more and more, over the years.

 _Sorry, didn't mean to—_

 _No, I could tell that. Doesn't make it less damned annoying though. Wait till I get back to lose your head, alright?_

 _Fine._

When Arthur finally comes back I immediately unleash my racing thoughts on him. "The boy wants to be a recruit, Arthur. Not even eight but he basically said he wants to. Didn't need an explanation or anything—but then he said only if the other two can join our ranks, they're mercenaries, apparently hold loyalty to no one. And one of them, a woman, she kept trying to get me to agree to letting them, to persuading Aredian as if that's possible, and her eyes, Arthur—and he kept calling me Emrys, I don't even know what that means—I don't know what they're up to but it's something, the woman seemed—"

"Hold your tongue a moment," he stops, pulling me farther away from the door. For good reason. I definitely should have kept all that between our minds, not burst out with it all out loud. Hindsight.

But Arthur only sits me down on my cot, sitting on his across from me, and looks at me with wide eyes. He takes in a shaky breath, then says, "Who called you that?"

"Sorry?"

He huffs impatiently. "You said you were called 'Emrys.'"

"Mordred. The boy, he did. Emrys, or something like that. It was strange." I shrug. It was strange, but it was easily the least strange thing about the whole interaction.

Arthur gusts out an exhale, brows furrowed. "How would he know it?"

"The name? I don't know, I've never heard of it. It's more a question of why he's calling _me_ the name, though."

"And they seem like they're up to something?"

"Yes!" I nod, trying not to jump up back to my feet. "Yes, I know it. No one wants to become a recruit, Arthur. Much less a child. The woman, I think this is all her doing, so maybe if we just—"

"Do what she says," he interrupts, and I feel my jaw unhinge.

I must have heard wrong. "What?"

"Let them join," Arthur nods, firm. "If that's their plan."

"But . . . why?"

"What harm could it do? If they're just mercenaries—"

"He's a _baby,_ Arthur. Younger than I was." My voice comes out harsh, hurt.

Arthur shuts his eyes tight, and I wince, immediately regretting my words. Shoots of pain, regret, and hatred manage to hurt me even through our connection; actually feeling it must be terribly painful.

"Arthur. _Stop it._ That's not what I meant," I say, attempting a scolding tone.

 _You didn't mean that the claim is horrific and ruins lives?_ he says sardonically, but between our connection. Statements like that can't be made out loud. "I know it's a horrible decision to make. But . . . he wants to be a recruit. I have a feeling. If he called you _Emrys_ , maybe . . ."

"Maybe _what_? What does the name have to do with anything?"

"It's important," Arthur says firmly.

"So we let an eight year old become a recruit," I say, "on the whim of your 'feeling.'"

"On the chance these people are more than what they say," he says, clenching his jaw. "Besides, I don't like your chances of helping a child escape if he emphatically doesn't want to."

I feel my stomach sink, my lungs clam up at this side of Arthur. The non-negotiable side. "It would still be worth it to—"

" _No_. No, it would not," he cuts me off, eyes burning. "Not worth the cost of your life. Not this time."

"That's not for you to decide." I take a bold step, closing the distance between us.

Arthur is not deterred. "Maybe not," he agrees stonily, "but I won't give you any of your magic to do it. I decide that, at least." He moves past me back to the tent's entrance, adding, "I'll ask Aredian about Mordred's conditions," before leaving.

I sit down on my cot, gusting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I've been looking into the mechanics of the claim with little to no progress in the past four years. It doesn't help that Morgana has only been here for campaigns, when Arthur and I are too busy not dying to come up with ideas. The closest I think I've ever come to reaching an epiphany is still that fateful day in the forests outside of Ealdor. The connection flaring between Morgana and Arthur as their hands clasped, somehow deterring the claim's effects.

But time and time again Morgana comes with Uther every Spring with no more hope than when she left.

Times like these, my soul aches to be freed.

I know Arthur means well. I can feel it. But I can also feel another part of my soul blackening, even as I consider the idea of standing by—doing nothing as an innocent boy is forced into slavery for life, no matter how he claims to 'be ready' for it. It always feels wrong, always—but the youngest I've seen to become a recruit since myself was last year, and the sorcerer was seventeen. More than twice the age of this child.

My brain simply can't reconcile with the notion. I stare, seeing nothing, thinking of my oath to help every sorcerer I could here at the front lines. Friend or foe. _To save and unite your people_ , like the white dragon Aithusa once said.

Finally I move to grab our bar of soap, deciding to make use of the rain if it insists on pouring down incessantly. Rubbing off battle grime is a heavenly experience, if one can ignore how the water always runs red—especially like now, when I know with a surety that none of it's mine. I've found a more secluded spot to pull off my chain mail and then peel off the shirt underneath, letting the rain pound against my bare back. It's freezing, but wonderful.

 _I think Aredian wants the boy for himself,_ I hear from Arthur in the midst of scrubbing my hair.

 _Is that a yes?_

 _He said we could use more swords,_ Arthur replies with.

 _A child, though? After all this time?_

The grisly man rarely exhibits interest in showing up for claim ceremonies, and seems fine with being one of the only higher generals in Lord Uther's army to not have a recruit. He makes up for it with cruelty towards any recruit that steps in his path, of course. Beatings, when he's in a bad mood. Worse, when he's in a good one. That and more apparently helped him earn enough favor before Sir Gorlois's death to be Uther's new second-in-command ten years ago.

I'll admit to having a few nightmares about the man.

 _Easier to influence, maybe_ , Arthur says, sounding disgusted, and I suppress a shudder at the thought. _It would ruin my plans to only have the youngest of the knights there._

 _In that case, I hope their little plan involves his death_ , I declare.

Arthur sends back wordless agreement, but I also catch a pang of regret. The kind he has when he's feeling guilty about something—or everything. But I don't press. Sometimes an argument just makes it worse, and I'm tired of debating the pros and cons of escaping into another kingdom and leaving the other recruits to die. Arthur will never give it up. A part of me is glad he won't, even when he frustrates me like this.

"Merlin?"

I whip around, only to further tense at the sight of Leon. He smiles hesitantly from underneath his red cloak, hunched against the rain. "Merlin, have you seen Freya?"

I immediately shake my head, and clamp my teeth so they stop chattering. "Sorry, no. Not since she took me to the prisoners earlier."

It's been an uneasy past few months between us. At the tale end of the fighting, before the autumn weather had yet given way to winter, Freya helped a magical prisoner of war escape. An older man, who said he fled to Camelot with his family to get them away from Lord Uther but was still required to join the army himself when his magic was discovered.

It was my doing. I lit the council tent on fire as a distraction, and she cut him loose. It was supposed to seem like an accident.

But Leon saw Freya and I give the old man a blanket and food before he ran. Stupid, that, doing more than the bare minimum. Wasting time. But all the other soldiers and knights were trying to put out a fire on the other side of the base, and I thought for once I could do a bit more.

But Leon had gone looking for her, and saw us. And we saw that he saw us.

He looked away.

"She's not with Sir Jethro?" I suggest when we've been standing, silent, for too long. Leon blinks, then shakes his head.

"No. He's been resting, said he's not feeling well. I thought she might be with you." He shrugs, smiles uneasily again, and turns to leave. "Let me know if you do."

"Of course, sir," I say.

 _Freya, Leon is looking for you again_ , I send out to her as I finish washing. It takes several minutes before I hear a response.

 _He found me._

 _Why does he keep asking where you are?_

Her answer comes unfinished. _I think . . ._

 _What?_

 _I don't know._

 _. . . I think he's afraid for me._

Her message comes with a large amount of uneasiness. Leon is probably acting even stranger around her. But it's been months, even if I keep assuming the worst.

I go back to my tent to dry off and change into a new shirt—or a new-er shirt, they're still all from Arthur—and lay down on my cot, just to rest my eyes for a moment, to not think for a second, especially not dwell on the thought that another child will be losing their innocence tonight, think of easier things like playing ball, my mum's smile, her soft, dry hands running through my hair—

"Merlin."

My eyes snap open, scrambling to sit up and fight before I realize where I am. And that I've been flustered, _again_.

Relaen is hesitantly peering in from the tent's opening. "Sorry." She smiles in sympathy, and I force my body to un-tense. "Sir Arthur said you wanted a meeting with all of us."

"No, I did," I say, swinging my legs onto the ground. She enters, pulling down her red hood. "Falling asleep was not the plan."

"But it did you some good," she laughs, pointing at the top of my head. I frown, confused as I look up and raise a hand until I feel the tufts of hair sticking straight up.

Relaen laughs harder when I attempt to flatten my hair and it immediately flops upward again, and of course that's when the rest of the party arrives. Sefa and Kara, followed by Finn, all of which incites a range of smiles and smirks at the sight.

"Glad to see you all alive," Finn says, the main culprit of the smirking. I make one last attempt to flatten the bedhead, and give up with a sigh.

Kara snorts at his comment. "Breathing, maybe."

Sefa chews on a lip to keep from smiling; Relaen rolls her eyes. "No thanks to you, trying to single-handedly take down that dragon." Everyone turns their head to Freya, who's spoken from the door. She has her hands on her hips, looking cross. Kara looks down, shrugging.

"Who did, in the end?" I ask, and all eyes shoot to Sefa. Her face pales.

"I didn't do anything," she says quickly, looking mortified.

Finn pats a hand on her shoulder. "If you hadn't directed the archers to shoot at its wings like that, we would never have been able to fight it on the ground."

"Or kill it before Merlin could rush to our aid," Kara says, nodding. "It's the first time." And Sefa's first battle, as the newest recruit in Arthur's squadron. Her father decided death, and in the same moment pleaded with her to choose the claim.

But the whole point of our squadron is to take down the dragons. Many battles begin and end without an attack by one of the creatures, but the ones that did forced a retreat out of Lord Uther's army.

Not anymore.

"And I've never been happier to not be needed," I say, meeting all of their eyes in the cramped tent. "But I think it's time to assume Camelot's generals are aware of us, who we are. What we do. They scattered us on purpose."

They keep silent, the air growing solemn at the notion. And for good reason.

"This can't happen again," I say, and stand. This many pairs of eyes on me used to be unsettling at the least, terrifying at the worst, but now I'm only glad I'm keeping their attention. "It could be the difference between life and death, for us and everyone else. No more pairs, no more leaving our squadron when you see fire in the corner of your eye. Tell me, and I'll decide when we move. Together."

Relaen grimaces, looking at me with concern. "That could mean we're all led into a trap, sir. And the dragons will have more time to attack."

"Yes," I answer simply. "But I'm willing to bet their trap can't be worse than last time with the three manic dragons."

Manic, like the dragon Kilith, who wreaked havoc on Ealdor and enslaved recruits after swearing to never attack innocents. Unreasonable, and more importantly—un-persuadable. Which leaves me with only raw power, no option to merely compel the beasts to leave. Not to mention that horrible, twisting stab to the gut that comes, the moment I feel the life leave the poor creature. Why exactly I can feel it, every time, even apparently when I'm nowhere near the fight, I try not to think about too hard.

Meanwhile everyone shudders at the mention of the three manics, attacking like rabid dogs when our soldiers' fire-repellent capes kept them safe from fire. It was all in all a bloody mess.

"Is that clear?" I raise a brow, and the sorcerers all nod their heads in agreement. "Good. Who is it this time?"

"Freya's, I think, considering she's never had to before," Kara says, and Freya frowns at all of us.

"Had to what?" she asks, eyes wide.

"It's nothing too exciting," Finn says, smirking. "You just have to tell us one reason you're glad to be alive."

"Breathing," Kara mutters, though everyone ignores her this time.

"W-what . . . I, I don't know—why—"

"We're a team," I tell her, and reach forward to still her wringing hands. "I have to make sure you all survive this. And reasons to survive . . . that helps."

Blue eyes grow impossibly wider, her mouth opening and shutting without sound. Not unlike how Relaen reacted the first time; entirely dumbfounded. Because all the reasons to be alive and be glad of the fact are stripped from you with the claim—and it takes conscious effort to find new ones.

"Today, I'm glad I'm alive because my squadron managed to slay a dragon without me," I say, for example.

She chews her lip, blushes, then finally says, "I'm glad I'm alive because . . . you are all kind. Even my guardian."

I try not to let my surprise show, instead giving her an encouraging nod. Her guardian is Sir Galahad, who according to Arthur always wanted to have a recruit. Those kind of men, who view a person as something to "have," don't tend to treat the person that does become enslaved to them very well. But perhaps fate took pity on her. As far as I can see, Galahad behaves as well if not better than the other knights in the squadron, so perhaps I was wrong to judge him.

But there's only ever hope that at the words ' _seek thy guardian!_ ' it is the recruit's soul seeking, not the claim itself. I sometimes believe the former, considering Arthur and I. But then I see the cruelest of men chosen for the most innocent of men and women, and wonder if just in that one moment the fates took pity on me.

"Thank you, Sefa," Relaen says, and the others nod.

"I'll see you at supper," I tell them, a dismissal, and my squadron makes to leave. Before Freya can go, however, I catch the sleeve of her coat.

 _Stay._

"What is it?" she asks once we're alone.

"What did Leon want?"

Freya's brow furrows, regarding me with a strange expression. "Does it matter?"

"It does if he plans on telling someone."

Her expression wavers between fear and resignation. "We can't control whether he does or not."

"What did he say?" I press, and she sighs.

"He asked if I've been feeling alright," she says, and I stare blankly in answer. "That's it, I swear. He's just been concerned a lot. I don't know why."

". . . are you, alright?" I ask, looking her up and down with new eyes. Four years ago she was an inch taller, and now I'm nearly a head higher. But her brown eyes regard me with even more of the same warmth, if with a bit of exasperation right now.

" _Yes._ Two young men worried after my well-being," she shakes her head, smirking. "My parents would be so proud."

She's never mentioned parents before; I force myself not to press, grinning back easily. "Good. I need my second-in-command at her best."

Second-in-command is a very formal way of putting it. Arthur and I spent our first two and a half years training here till he was knighted—at the age of 16, two years earlier than knighthood is usually given—and then Uther appointed Sir Jethro to stay with the troops and replace the aged commander over training. Freya came with of course, taught me patiently how to speak between souls of magic, and was my first choice when Arthur got permission to form a dragon-slaying squadron of knights and recruits. The only other on the original team is Finn.

Now she teaches the guardian and recruit pairs that join us, Freya and Sir Galahad being her current trainees. We've lost two others in the past year, one to a Camelot sorcerer and the other to the bite of a dragon. Thomas and Cerah. Sefa wouldn't know either of them.

"Is there anything else, Merlin?" Freya says, eyes genuinely asking.

"Just let me know if Leon . . . if he asks or says anything—"

"I promise," she interrupts vehemently, and I sigh, smiling tiredly. Maybe it is time to stop worrying about that. But caution never hurt anyone.

"Till supper, then," I nod, letting her go.

Supper is larger than usual—as it should be, considering that the only other meal of the day was skipped during the battle—and the line for it stretches almost to me and Arthur's tent. Speaking of, I can't find Arthur in the line, and inwardly moan at the thought of waiting at the very end of it right now. Even the smell of plain cooked beans and bread is enough to make my mouth water.

 _Merlin, where are you going?_ I hear as I turn to head for the back. I spin around, and the more seconds that pass as I scan the crowd of eating soldiers the stronger the feeling of amusement echoes back at me.

I spot him in the next moment, his grin wide and altogether too smug for such a small mistake. But then I see the amount of food he has set in front of him, and understand his enthusiasm. There are even _two_ bowls of soup. I hate sharing soup.

 _How did you manage this?_

 _Does it matter?_ He waves his hands over the feast proudly, then says aloud, "Dig in."

I've inhaled about half of the soup when the rest of Arthur's squadron begin to join us, sitting with Arthur like always. I can tell he likes it—a mix of gratitude, relief, and hesitant pride every time his men choose to be by his side—but outwardly he merely gives a nod as Sir Kay sits on the ground next to him.

"How's your back?" the knight asks, and immediately my eyes shoot over to Arthur.

 _You're hurt?_

"Just fine, thanks," Arthur answers, giving me a look.

"A knight knocked him onto his side when you were busy with the Camelot's scum," Sir Kay says to me, not missing my expression. "Kara turned the man's sword into a stick, though, so he only got a spanking."

Kara smirks as Kay laughs, sitting at her guardian's other side and slightly behind.

"Who knew transformation spells would be helpful in battle," Sir Gareth says, joining the group with Finn behind him. "Aren't they some of the easiest to perform?"

"Depending on the recruit," Sir Kay says. "Kara's pretty advanced in it."

"Finn was the one to deliver the killing blow to the beast this morning," Gareth defends, like a petty game of whose toy is better. The two glare at each other for a moment before laughing heartily.

I put down the remaining chunk of bread, appetite lost.

Gareth and Kay joke about other, less insulting things as the rest of Arthur's knights join, their recruits following. Ralaen and her knight, Sir Owain, and then Sefa with Sir Galahad. The men talk loudly about the battle, Sir Galahad boasting about swiping off two heads in one stroke. The others don't believe him, no matter how he insists, standing and demonstrating.

"You have no witness!" Kay argues, pointing his spoon at him. Galahad's smile turns sly, and he turns back to where Sefa still sits.

"That's where you're wrong. Sefa, did I not behead the two men?" he says, arm out to her. Everyone looks curiously at the newest recruit, her eyes flitting hesitantly between everyone.

". . . yes?" she replies, more a question than anything. Kay immediately snorts.

"We're not taking the word of your _recruit_ , Galahad," he says incredulously, blind to how half of the group tenses up. "She's going to agree with anything you tell her to!"

Galahad's jaw clenches, just for a moment, before he rolls his eyes. "Fine. Don't believe me. If anyone secretly wants lessons, though, I wouldn't begrudge you."

The knights laugh and break up to speak between each other then, enough conversation to let the recruits begin as well. Arthur doesn't speak, silently finishing his meal and staring off just above their heads, into the woods. I'm only catching threads of thoughts, and overall his feelings are too muddled to understand. I try to send out a wave of comfort to him anyway—but it's hard when I don't feel it myself.

"I want you all there tonight, for the claiming ceremony," Arthur speaks up in the midst of everyone, and all other conversation stops.

They all look appropriately confused. I can't say I'm not.

"But . . . Arthur—" Sir Owain starts, glancing back at Ralaen.

Arthur cuts him off. "I need you all there tonight." He grimaces, looking down at the cup of water in his hands for a moment. "I know two recruits is a . . . commitment. I don't wish it on myself. But I trust all of you, and I don't trust many."

"Wait, is this for the little boy?" Sir Galahad asks, eyes widening, and Arthur's grimace is confirmation enough. Galahad's face flashes for an instant, too quickly to see what passed on it before it hardens into resolve. "I'll be there."

The other knights murmur their consent as well, conversation starting up again when Arthur stays silent.

 _They're not perfect men, but I trust them_ , he tells me instead, and I nod.

 _I agree. Especially considering they actually listen to your orders once in a while. Takes a high caliber of knight to manage that._ I say it with humor, but there have been many knights in the past who disregarded Arthur—because his looks make him seem naive or entitled, maybe, or just because of his young age. Not these men. Despite their flippant words and imperfect regards towards their recruits, none have truly harmed or shamed them. None would try making Mordred's life any more miserable than it's about to be.

Leon drops by with Freya, but only to wish the knights a good evening. "Where is Sir Jethro?" Gareth asks, and Leon's smile seems strained as he answers.

"Just a bit under the weather. I'm bringing supper to him."

I try to silently question Freya, asking if anything's wrong, but my head is too crowded to send it through. She seems relaxed enough, if a bit tired.

 _Is Leon going to be there?_ I check with Arthur, already assuming a yes.

 _No_.

I try not to glance up at Arthur too quickly—the knights already seem a bit intrigued by our tendency to "have conversations with our eyes"—before he continues. _He refused. Wouldn't say why._

 _Strange. Like a lot of things today._

 _It's been a long one, all things considered._ Arthur smiles tiredly, shrugging. _Although if you want to add to the list, Aredian was very easy to persuade, having the mercenaries join us. He said to have them present for the ceremony._

 _That's it: he's in on their plan_ , I deadpan, and Arthur snorts into his water. The group around us glance his way, but Arthur manages to turn it into a cough in time not to arouse more suspicion.

 _You're trying to make me look like an idiot,_ he tells me, shooting a very obvious glare.

 _You don't need any help with that._

Arthur sighs, shaking his head and rising. "The ceremony will start at dusk," he announces, then adds to me: _I'll tell the others I selected._

 _I'll get Mordred ready_ , I say, rising as well. My stomach immediately ties itself into knots at the thought.

 _I thought he already was 'ready_ ,' Arthur says with dark humor as we part ways.

 _That's what worries me._

And Mordred does indeed seem ready; his eyes are bright with excitement, perking up the second I wake him. He's been put in a tent under a sleeping spell with a magic-draining poppet under the cot, as procedure; but it doesn't seem to faze him, having his magic blocked.

But then again that's different from having it completely ripped from you.

"How's your head?" I ask, remembering how dizzy I felt under the spell.

Mordred shivers his little shoulders, nodding. "Feels strange."

"Not having your magic?" I ask. He nods, and my heart takes a hopeful leap. "You don't have to do this. I can find my guardian and then transport you a few miles west; it'll give you a head start. You can run to Caerleon's kingdom—"

 _Emrys._ His voice is powerful despite its youth, cutting me off with the strange name. I wonder if I could force him to escape anyway, without my powers and without his cooperation. The chances seem small.

 _You'll thank us, one day_ , he says firmly, almost placating, like I'm the one in need of comfort right now.

 _Us? Who do you mean?_ I press, thinking of the fierce blond woman and her familiar eyes. I'm almost positive now that she's behind whatever is going on.

But instead Mordred answers, _The Innate._ His small face lifts up into a small, innocent smile.

It looks too dangerous to be sweet.

* * *

 **A/N: Can't wait to hear from you all, I've missed our conversations :) I'm also implementing a historic tactic of mine from the 'RIVULET' fic days: if you members review, I'll share a sneak peek with you from the coming chapter! Woohoo, wouldn't want to miss out on that, amiright? Pretty sure I am ;)**


	2. A Thwarted Scheme & an Imminent Arrival

**2\. A Scheme is Thwarted and an Arrival is Imminent**

* * *

Summary: " _But what would you do if you were free? Run off? Help Camelot? Still rally with Uther?"_

 _I blink, caught off-guard. It's a good question, one that I immediately know Arthur's answer to. He's advocated to run ever since Ealdor. And maybe, in the first few weeks after my enslavement all I wanted was to get home as well, before I knew my mum had already left. Before Will died. But that was also before Aithusa told me of my destiny; before I realized I had work to do._

* * *

Dusk arrives.

Mordred is feverish, but happy to stand in the very midst of the crowded tent as the chosen knights enter. I pray no one makes him kneel-he's close to the ground as it is. Arthur is at my side, looking grim, and I try not to fidget where I stand.

I usually skip attending these. For obvious reasons.

I feel like I'm about to throw up at any given second, knowing what's about to happen. What I'm about to _let_ happen. It's almost worse than the sickening feel of each dragon's death, forcing myself against instinct to deliver the final blow. At least then I can tell myself I am saving lives, murdering the creature. But for these prisoners?

I'm just another guilty bystander.

Mordred's 'friends,' the two mercenaries, are led in while everyone is still gathering. The young man leans against the woman, injured in some way I can't identify. They both let their gaze wander around the room, looking for something perhaps. There's a bright interest, especially in the woman's dark eyes, that leaves me uneasy.

Suddenly everything makes horrible sense. _Arthur, we've made a mistake - what if they're just Camelot spies trying to get into a claim ceremony to use our secrets?_

Arthur shoots me a loaded look out of the corner of his eye. _You just think of that_ now _?_

 _You're the one who thought this was a good idea!_

 _They're not even sorcerers! How would they understand? I don't rightly understand the ceremony myself, and I've seen it my whole life._

 _The boy is a sorcerer,_ I remind him.

Arthur sighs audibly, looking at Mordred in the center of the small tent. The boy is currently rocking on his heels, rubbing at an eye. Seemingly harmless.

Aredian arrives just then, dressed in his usual all-black. It almost gives him the appearance of a Camelot sorcerer-or just Camelot's 'scum' as the knights refer to them as-if it wasn't for the red cape draped over it. "Have I arrived too late?" he asks, eying Mordred, though it's clear we haven't started.

Arthur shakes his head once, responding, "Just in time, Commander." _I still have a good feeling about this, Merlin_ , he tells me before moving to stand next to Mordred in the center.

 _Good. That still makes one of us._

"Perfect! Don't wait on my account then," Aredian says coolly, stopping to stand just at Arthur's right. His eyes have yet to stray from Mordred in the center of the room, mouth curled ever-so-slightly.

I silently give thanks that Nimueh-despite the absolute _monstrosity_ of what's she's created-did not fashion the claim so that others could simply make choose to be guardians. For all that it's caused Arthur problems, since his new duty of assembling knights for the ceremony, it stops men like Aredian. Like Uther.

It doesn't actually take a powerful sorcerer to perform the ceremony. Just a decently gifted, highly indecent person. Not to call the older, quiet recruit Finna indecent, of course - but anytime I imagine what it must _take_ , to do such a thing . . . probably a lot of hate, or a lot of fear.

Finna stands in front of Mordred, and the claim begins.

First she chants, low and quick, but I've been able to pick out some of the meaning from the few times I have heard it: " _Stronger than the warrior, greater than the warlock . . . the tie to tether all power . . . for one to lead, the other to follow . . . their bodies bound in all but soul . . ._ "

I can't help but check on the prisoners' expressions, if they are paying close attention. The woman has her eyes locked on Mordred, though that could mean many things; the man looks a bit green, for whatever reason. Maybe from his injury.

Finna finishes the chant, eyes glowing, and a fire licks up immediately in a ring around the boy. Another larger one flares up as well, just big enough to bar everyone in the room from moving a step closer. His eyes widen impossibly further.

"Alibbend o sē lēode, forniman o hearm. Nemnan on ādfȳr ac wēn, álibbend o nīedling," Finna continues, now much louder. This translation is relatively easy to make: _One of the people, bearer of suffering. Call upon fire and hope now, one of slaves . . ._

But _álibbend_ doesn't refer to just the word 'one.' It implies _one who is left_ , or _one who survives_. The strangest part of the ceremony, almost like a benediction. A blessing on the recruit's head. Even Nimueh had her own twisted form of compassion, it would seen, as the mark of the claim is permanently etched into the new recruit's skin.

Mordred doesn't cry out like most, but his eyes well quickly with tears as Finna continues to chant and moves her fingers harshly in a pattern down his wrists. Inky black, dark magic in its purest of forms, appears to ooze into the pattern. It drips into the fire, makes it burn a brilliant blue. Then the dark magic slithers just under his skin up to his heart. I can't see it, but I _know._ I remember.

Not like something was squeezing my heart, but _invading_ it. Claiming it. Corrupting every beat.

". _. . Claiming thy heart, claiming thy strength, claiming thy power, claiming thy body and all but thy soul,_ Seek thy guardian!"

The last phrase is in the regular tongue, declared with a wide up-sweep of her hands. The fire surges up, then immediately sweeps out across the audience. It's a small tent, so the wall of flame dies quickly, and everyone looks quickly among-st themselves to see who it is.

My eyes immediately move to Aredian, and can't help letting out a sigh of relief when his form is as dark and shadowed as usual.

It takes an unusual amount of time for anyone to find the chosen guardian - mainly because no one was paying attention to the person in question. But as my eyes track the crowd and finally recognize the faint, unearthly glow that lingers on the chosen, I can't help but think, _Of course._

Of course this is why.

"Step forward," Finna says, not aware of what's happening.

"No," Aredian says immediately upon recognizing who it is.

"It's too late to—" Finna starts.

"He's a mercenary!" Aredian says. "From Camelot."

"He's a mercenary," Arthur agrees, "with no allegiance to Camelot."

Aredian looks murderous but makes no further protest when Arthur gestures for the young man to step forward. The mercenary looks even greener, and glances at his comrade in desperation. She just nods and pushes him forward. He starts to approach Mordred, but stops, looking torn.

Aredian sighs sharply, then motions at the knights behind the woman in a telling gesture. They grab her by the arms, one raising a knife to her throat.

The other mercenary turns around at the commotion and yells, "Morgause!"

Aredian smiles for just a moment. Then he approaches the young man, saying casually, "I see you care for her."

"If you lay a hand on her," the man growls in warning.

"I have something you want. And you have control over something I want," Aredian says. "Let's propose a deal, then." The man moves his head back and forth between Mordred and the woman who must be called Morgause, looking stricken. "We will keep her alive, in exchange for your cooperation."

"Gwaine, it's alright," the woman called Morgause interjects sagely. "Listen to him."

The young man, Gwaine, stares at her a second more. Finally he nods at Aredian.

Aredian smiles. "Good. And just in time—your recruit looks a little faint."

He's not wrong; Mordred is swaying in the middle of the blue fire, looking about ready to keel over. I can't imagine how it would feel, waiting so long with all that dark magic bottled up inside. Waiting for Arthur to join hands with me, at my ceremony, was agony even for ten seconds.

The next part of the ceremony we don't hear, though I remember it well enough. Commands to join hands, to have Arthur step over the fire. Especially the moment, as I looked into his almost equally-terrified blue eyes, that I realized he had as little choice in this as I did. It was comforting.

When Arthur still hesitated, I pulled him across the ring of flame myself. I've never regretted it.

Gwaine steps over the blue fire, and Mordred cries out in shock—the worst part. After claiming your heart, the darkness seeps back out and takes the magic with it. Ripping it from something vital inside you, flesh torn from flesh. Mordred is hardly standing; I wish I could send him strength.

Then comes the irreversible words from the guardian: "Ic fæstnian ēow anweald, don mīn ferð. Ic fæstnian ēow." _I bind thy power, to do my will. I bind thy life to mine._

Mordred's eyes brighten to a consuming gold, head thrown back as he feels the last of it; the end of it. Then, gone. Numbness, nothingness, hollow emptiness.

I remember thinking I'd just been unmade.

His wide eyes go back to blue before they shutter closed, a small groan slipping out.

 _Merlin, it'll be alright_ , Arthur says between us. He's probably felt every dip and turn of emotion I've just experienced right along with me. I feel him squeeze my hand briefly, in comfort. _At least it wasn't Aredian._

A merciful twist of fate indeed. But probably not enough to stop me from reliving my own claiming for the next few weeks.

The ring of blue fire is gone; Mordred looks exhausted, barely kept up by Gwaine's hand on his shoulder. "Good. Now we will take your friend to a secure place—" Aredian starts confidently. Only to be caught in the radius of a powerful blast of magic.

At least ten men fly through the air, crumpling back to the ground. I stare in shock, catching the fading glow in Morgause's eyes before she reaches out a hand, yelling, "Gwaine, Mordred, _now_!" She's immediately engaged by knights, but recruits aren't often present at claim ceremonies. I turn to Arthur with wide eyes, hands out, ready to fight.

Arthur looks down at my stretching hands, back up at me, and then shakes his head.

He . . . doesn't want me to fight.

Meanwhile Gwaine half-leads and half-drags Mordred to her side, fending off knights with his fists and her powers alone. Gareth manages to avoid Morgause's defensive magic long enough to stab her in the abdomen; Morgause cries out, waving a hand that sends him stumbling back, but she's hardly standing when Gwaine and Mordred reach her. They grasp hands, she gasps the chant, "Líesing ús déaþsele: _Astýre ús—"_

But suddenly Mordred yanks Gwaine away with all his strength, pulling apart their hands just as Morgause finishes, "— _þanonweard!"_

A column of wind rushes into the tent, nearly uprooting it as the woman alone is spirited away.

But in the last second, when she realizes this very thing, the woman called Morgause looks directly at me with her dark eyes—bright, still familiar, but for the first time, frightened—and I finally place where I've seen them before: the eyes of the woman I healed that fateful day I was taken from Ealdor, dark brown and wide. Filled with the same expression of fear.

Then she is gone, and Mordred and Gwaine are not.

Immediately they are wrenched apart by knights, hands behind their backs, and Arthur orders Gwaine to be tied to a tree again, and for Mordred to be kept here. He orders Owain to notify the physician, and links hands with me, _To heal._

 _Check on the wounded, I'll get this mess sorted out,_ he tells me.

While Arthur starts giving orders I go to Aredian first, and realize with a pang of both fear and relief that he's not moving. Upon futher inspection, not breathing either. I whisper a few spells, trying to feel out the damage, and feel my heart skip a little when it becomes very obvious _why_ the old man is so still.

"Arthur," I call out loud, my voice coming out calmer than I feel. He quickly pulls away from directing the chaos to kneel by my side.

"What? Is he—"

"Dead," I finish for him, looking down at the Commander with a growing sense of detachment. A dead body is a dead body, after all. His neck is twisted oddly; it might have happened on impact. More likely, however, it happened at Morgause's will. I recognized the spell she used, and remember clearly that the force of it is determined by the sorcerer. His neck probably snapped long before he hit the ground.

 _My wish for his demise came true,_ I think deliriously.

 _I'll have to send word to my father_ , Arthur replies. Our eyes meet, and I can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

 _Do you think they really planned all this?_ I ask, gesturing down at Aredian's body.

Arthur's brow furrows low over his eyes, frowning. _Not at the end. They were supposed to go with her._

Her. Morgause. The woman. The one I healed all those years ago.

The one that took my mother to Camelot.

 _Arthur, did you recognize her at all?_ I start with, but then Kay and Galahad are in front of us, faces alarmed.

"Is he alive?" Kay asks, and Arthur shakes his head.

"Merlin checked. Must have been internal, his head," Arthur says, standing and waiting for me to do the same before continuing, "Get everyone to the infirmary. I need two men to carry Commander Aredian's body to his tent. Owain, ask Borus how much extra help he'll need, let me know. Galahad, spread word to the commanders and council members that there will be an emergency meeting here in a quarter hour. Gareth! Make sure an extra pyre is built before dawn."

Arthur's men all answer with nods and "Yes, sir!" before dispersing. He turns to look at me, and I can't help noticing the glow in his eyes. It's an expression I've only seen a few times on Arthur; usually, in the midst of battle.

 _Go to the mercenary first, find out what you can._

 _Arthur. The woman, Morgause—_

 _Might be dead already. Gareth stabbed her in the gut. Let's worry about the two we still have,_ he responds briskly before walking away to help an injured knight.

I huff a frustrated breath, turn on my heel, and go back to the big tree in the midst of camp. The mercenary called Gwaine sees me as I approach, his grin a little strained but no less wide. "Time to meet my maker yet?" he asks. "I keep waiting."

"Not yet." I shrug, adding, "Maybe not for a long time."

Gwaine's eyes narrow. "What do they call you?" he asks, leaning his head back to see me properly.

"Depends who you ask," I answer, surprising him, and the man's grin grows a little more genuine. "My name, however, is Merlin. And yours is Gwaine, correct?"

"That's me," he says with a flourish of his bound hands.

"I grew up in Essetir," I start with, wondering how to get this man talking. For whatever reason, being honest seems like the best route for now. "Do you really come from Caerleon?"

"Yes. Grew up there," Gwaine says. "Left when I was sixteen, couldn't stand the weather."

I snort, hearing the lie. "And you learned how to use a sword," I point out.

"My father taught me."

"Does he approve of your sell-sword ways?"

Gwaine cocks his head up at me, eyes narrowing. "Would it matter if he didn't?"

"'Didn't?' Is he dead then?" I ask, and can tell I've struck a nerve immediately. Gwaine's eyes quickly flicker away, mouth tightening. He doesn't respond. A dead father, then. I bite my lip for a moment, thinking.

Gwaine looks up in surprise when I get down, kneeling so we're on the same level. "How old are you?" I ask, trying to ease back into our friendly chat.

"How old are you?" he immediately retaliates, eyes still narrow as they flicker back to mine.

I force myself to smile. "Don't know. Probably sixteen? That's Arthur's guess, anyhow."

Gwaine's eyes look me up and down, a little less wary. "S'Arthur your master? That pompous snooty-nosed one that was standing next to you?" He raises an eyebrow, and I let out a genuine laugh.

"Yes, that's him."

"Bad luck, that. Bet you wish you'd been shackled to someone with a sense of humour, like me for example," Gwaine grins, though the smile is almost a grimace.

"I'm glad Mordred got you," I agree, moving the subject as tactfully as I can. Gwaine sighs, looks down at his shackled hands. "I want to be honest with you. There's probably still going to be debate on whether or not to kill you both—"

"No," he says, sucking in a breath. "Mordred doesn't deserve this. We never thought he'd . . . that we'd . . ."

"You didn't plan to stay," I guess. "But how could you have known you'd be chosen? What would you have done if—"

"Morgause said we would take the guardian with us," he admits.

My stomach clenches, nauseous as I realize what was really going on this whole time. "You _are_ part of Camelot," I say, voice drained of its previous friendliness. "I thought they'd given up trying to capture pairs and rip them apart? After all the failures and bloody deaths?"

"We aren't," he denies, "and I don't know everything. But Morgause said with her magic she could—"

"Succeed where the rest failed," I finish for him, disgusted. "Or kill an innocent child in the process."

"She said—"

"And clearly you believe everything that woman says," I say. "Who are you two, really? Mercenaries wouldn't care about the claim, don't argue that."

"Morgause and I joined 'cause it was either that or jail," Gwaine says. "She already knew Mordred; he volunteered."

"Let me guess: it was Morgause's idea." I don't wait for him to answer, sudden concern flaring for my mother if this is the sort of woman to 'help' her those years ago. Could she have been led into a similar trap? Is this what Gaius had meant about enemies in Camelot?

I need answers.

"Do you know a woman named Hunith?" I say in a rush, leaning forward. Gwaine immediately looks confused.

"No. Sorry mate," he shakes his head.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, trying to not feel sick with disappointment. Another dead end on a long-cold trail.

"Who are 'the Innate,' then?" I ask, and get a distinctly different reaction. Gwaine's mouth opens only to clamp shut. He looks down at his hands again. "Mordred's life is at stake, Gwaine," I press when he says nothing.

"He'll be in more trouble if I do tell you," he says, shaking his head.

"That would be hard, considering they might decide to kill you both."

"And you, Merlin?" Gwaine asks sharply, eyes scrutinizing. "What would you decide?"

I stare at him, trying to understand what he's getting at. "You're an idiot if you think I can—"

"I know you're a slave," Gwaine interjects. "But what would you do if you were free? Run off? Help Camelot? Still rally with Uther?"

I blink, caught off-guard. It's a good question, one that I immediately know Arthur's answer to. He's advocated to run ever since Ealdor. And maybe, in the first few weeks after my enslavement all I wanted was to get home as well, before I knew my mum had already left. Before Will died. But that was also before Aithusa told me of my destiny; before I realized I had work to do. So my answer—if I were just another person, in the midst of all this—

"I would find another way," I say. It's too revealing, guessing by how Gwaine's face softens, but the words can't be taken back. I stand, making to leave. "But it isn't up to me."

When I walk away he calls after me, "I'll do whatever it takes, Merlin. I'll cooperate. Just . . . save him."

I want to say, _I'll try._

I want to ask, _Why do you care?_

I want to scream, _If you do care so much how could you let this happen?!_

But if I did, I'm not sure who I'd be yelling at anymore.

I head back to my tent, ready to turn in for the night after such a long day. I light a lone candle and take off my boots. My head is buzzing uncontrollably, like I've just finished a battle all over again, and it takes me much longer than it should have to realize I'm not alone.

"Sorry," Finn says, stepping out of the shadows as I start.

"Finn?" I ask in surprise.

"I know it's late," he says quickly, shifting from foot to foot. His brown eyes flicker past my shoulder to the ground and back again. "I just, I can't sit around like I've been—"

"What is it?" I say, growing more worried by the second. When Finn says nothing, just releases a shaky breath, I guide him to the edge of my cot. He sits down with little resistance. "What's going on?" I demand when he says nothing.

My head is already skipping to the image of Breda, coming to me just hours before—

But I know I'm being paranoid. The recruits in our squadron come often, too often for me to worry about their mental state every time I speak with them one on one. Even if I still do.

Finn looks unsure, but then he rushes out all at once, "Is it true Aredian is dead?" Meeting my gaze with wide, hopeful eyes. I nod, inwardly relieved that's all it is, and can't blame him for the relief on his own face.

"Thanks to maid, mother and crone," he whispers, making a sign over his heart. It's an action I've noticed some recruits make, usually because they grew up Druids. I've never seen Finn do it till now, though, so I'm not sure. He glances at me, smirking apologetically. "Gareth told me to sit tight and wait, but I had to know. For Ralaen's sake."

"His body will burn with the fallen in the morning," I tell him. "She and everyone else will find out soon enough."

FInn looks at me hard for a moment, then barks a laugh. "Sometimes I forget how young you are, Merlin," he says, smiling ruefully as he stands.

I blink, caught offguard, but then agree: "Me too." Freya is the closest my age after all, and she's nearly three years older.

Finn lets out another harsh laugh, clapping a hand on my shoulder. His eyes look dark and sad but bright with life. Not like Breda's blank, dead ones. I relax, smiling back as he leaves, but stare after him, wondering what that was all about.

Of course, I do know Finn and Ralaen have been quietly together for a year now, just a month after Arthur assigned Sir Owain and Ralaen onto our team. Owain is a quiet, more serious sort of fellow that mellowed out the other knights a bit, while Ralaen from the beginning has brought life to the magical side of our squadron. A perfect fit.

With her dark hair and shining eyes, I can't blame Finn for falling for her.

But he's never been this blatant about it, even with me. Freya is the only reason I know. They hardly betray a single glance toward the other in public. It's impressive—and necessary, considering the consequences of being found out. Maybe that's why Finn is relieved that Aredian is dead, like I would be if Leon died and the knowledge of Freya and I's infraction died with him.

And I probably shouldn't wish for a man's death, especially considering he is Arthur's first if not best friend, but the more I've gotten to know Freya and her past the little I care.

 _Merlin_ , Arthur calls from a short distance. Exhaustion and worry translates through it.

 _Is something_ else _wrong?_

More dark humour, but I can feel that Arthur appreciates it. _Are you surprised?_ he answers sardonically, getting even closer. I start changing into my night shirt, sighing.

 _I really shouldn't be._

 _Bad news, and worse news._

 _What now?_

 _I met with the council regarding the mercenary and the boy_ , Arthur says, and I can hear him approaching the tent now. _Two of them had witnessed it, but the others—they've been dealing with another problem._

 _Was a decision made about them?_ I ask.

 _Not yet._

Arthur enters, just as I slip under my furs, looking more haggard and worn than he had after the battle.

"You look awful," I tell him, and he smiles tiredly, rubbing at the scruff on his face.

"And I'll need to clean up, soon," he says. "Lord Uther will be joining us, in less than a week."

I stare at him in disbelief. "But his health—"

"Did not stop him. And the council decided to wait till he joins us before ruling what to do with our reluctant pair."

"How do you know?"

"He sent a messenger ahead on horseback," he says, sitting down and pulling off muddy boots, "who arrived sometime during the claiming ceremony."

I sit back, stunned, unsure of whether to feel hopeful or discouraged. Uther always brings with him an aura that stirs tension, turns levity and joy frigid. But his arrival also means Morgana's return—and now, the almost certainty that Mordred will live.

I know the man well enough to assume he will look at the boy and see only a chance for more power, just like he did me.

"That's only half of it," Arthur continues when I stay quiet, changing out of his damp clothes.

"The bad news, or the worse news?" I quirk an eyebrow when he shoots me a look.

"You decide." Arthur leans over the candle, blowing it out and swathing the small tent in darkness. "Borus reported that another thirty three soldiers are showing symptoms of lace fever. Two more have died, which makes a total of—"

"Twenty-seven," I finish for him.

"Yes. There are only twelve recruits, including you, who have merit in that level of healing. We can't start a siege now."

"Uther will still want to," I say, and Arthur sighs in confirmation. It's no secret.

"He was determined for this to be his last campaign," Arthur reminds, and I huff in annoyance.

" _Our_ last campaign. But it can't be, not if an outbreak of fever is starting—"

"He'll still want to," Arthur says, echoing me. _But this might be our last anyways,_ he says inwardly, switching to a more secure line _. Get anything out of the mercenary?_

 _His name is Gwaine, and they aren't really mercenaries._

 _Shocking._

 _Not with Camelot, though, or so he says,_ I put in, not sure what I believe. _The woman, Morgause, wanted to try breaking the claim._

 _But why use an eight-year-old boy?_ Arthur point out, a strange emotion rolling off him in waves. Hope?

I disregard it. _Because she's a cold, heartless sorcerer? I don't know. Does it matter?_

 _The boy called you Emrys, Merlin._

 _And I still don't understand the significance of that._

Arthur doesn't answer for a long time, that undefinable emotion mixing slightly with doubt. _I'm not sure either. But you . . . I've heard it before._

 _You have?_

 _Our claim ceremony._

I sit up in my bed, looking over at him in the dark. "What?" I hiss out loud.

 _Your true name, the voice told me so. It's how guardians sheath their recruits' power._

 _And you only think to tell me this_ NOW _?_ I ask in disbelief, barely stopping myself from yelling out loud.

I feel more than see Arthur's wince. _I don't know. What good would it do? You never asked. I just . . . I'd been used to sheathing long before we got along. And it hadn't come up since._

I can _feel_ the genuineness of his words, even if I'm enraged by them all the same. Another thing kept from me, even if unconsciously done.

I let out a slow breath.

"You should have told me," I say out loud, the words coming out harsh and bitter. "I deserved to know."

"I go to a peaceful place in my mind, imagine an end, and think 'Emrys,'" he says matter-of-factly. "That's it. Feels like instinct now."

 _How would an eight year old boy know my 'true name,' then?_ I say.

I can feel guilt coming off him in waves, but at least he answers: _That's the thing. I have no idea. I'm not even sure what a true name is for, besides sheathing. But it feels important. It feels like . . ._ Arthur stops, thinking. _Almost like the name of your soul._

 _Merlin?_ he calls out when I say nothing.

I want to lash out at him. Give him a _taste_ of the frustration and helplessness that boils inside me, send it through our connection. I know how to do it.

But it wouldn't be enough. How can I explain that this feels like just another piece of myself stolen away? 'Name of my soul' or no, it was taken from me. Just one more thing ripped out and twisted to serve the claim's purposes. And the wound never closes or heals; I get to feel part of myself return, come home, only to be repeatedly ripped from me again.

 _Merlin?_

 _I'm tired_ , I tell him, and it's the truth. We both lay there in silence until sleep comes.

Borus, the head physician at the front lines, sends one of his recruits for me the next morning.

I'm not allowed to use magic, of course. Only in the winter months or by express permission of the general does a recruit at the front lines try to heal anyone but their guardian. Our powers can't be wasted. An attack is always imminent, and putting energy into a few half-loyal foot soldiers is considered a waste.

I am, however, allowed to help in other ways, ones Gaius taught me besides. Borus looks glad to see me when I follow his recruit Bezz into the quarantined area where those with lace fever have been moved. "Another three passed, last night," he tells me, handing over a bucket of water. "Five admitted. Still soldiers."

"Where are they?" I ask, looking over the rows of men. They're all on thin blankets, uncovered and exposed to the sky. The sun is out today, bright and blinding, as if the constant rain was nothing more than a dream. It's a surprise only three died during the nasty wetness from yesterday.

But quite a few men look close.

"Here." Borus directs me to the five new patients, all looking more frightened than ill compared to the rest. I nod, approaching one of them.

He seems startled when I sit next to him, sitting up. His dark skin looks slightly discolored, but his eyes are bright and lucid. "Merlin?"

I blink, surprised. "Do I know . . . ?"

"It is you!" he says, face lighting up. His smile is familiar, and my eyes widen. _Elyan_. Of course. "I haven't seen you since—"

"We left for the front lines," I finish for him, mouth slowly moving into a grin as well. He likely returned with the healed soldiers that very same campaign, but our paths never crossed.

"Four winters ago," he nods, grabbing my hand. "You've grown. Practically a man now, look at you!"

I laugh shakily, taking Elyan in as well. He looks cold, tired, and underfed.

Then again, so do most here.

"Did you see Gwen?" he asks, eyes bright. "She came during the last campaign, news reached me through a few friends. Never got to see her myself."

"I did," I nod, and squeeze his hand back. "She looked well."

"Good," he says resolutely. "That's all that matters."

I could argue, but thinking after a loved one can help keep a person alive. "Drink," I say instead, dipping the ladle full of water. He takes it gratefully. "Have you been feeling feverish? Dizzy, headaches? Any—"

"I've got it, if that's what you're asking," Elyan replies after gulping the water down. He tugs at his threadbare tunic, exposing the white rash that signals the disease. "Noticed this after the battle yesterday. Didn't notice how bad I felt besides, not really. Guess I'm just used to it." He grins self-deprecatingly.

I clap him on the shoulder, trying not to mourn the man already. He could survive it. He could.

And it's past time to move on to the rest, passing a drink or giving the ladle-fulls of water to the soldiers myself. It's just me, Borus, and his two recruits this morning. Freya isn't here, which is strange; Bezz usually fetches us both. Borus has us serve a breakfast of soaked grains to the men who will take it, afterwards eating the remainder ourselves.

"Did you not try fetching Freya as well?" I ask Bezz while he chews, and the older man shrugs.

"I did. Sir Leon turned me away outside her tent, said her guardian needed her."

I raise an eyebrow, wondering what on earth that should mean.

"Did he say for what exactly?" I ask. Bezz very helpfully shrugs again. _Freya,_ I call, hoping she hears. _Freya are you alright?_

I focus on receiving a response, trying not to let my mind stray as I wait, jogging one leg. Then Borus has us put fresh ointments on the white rashes of the men, and I struggle to both perform the task and keep my thoughts open.

 _Fine_ , Freya sends after much too long. The answer is so clipped and devoid of emotion it's clear she's purposefully censored a feeling.

 _Why did Leon stop you from coming?_

Another long silence, before: _Don't worry, Merlin. Just, something's happened—_

 _MERLIN, get to the front NOW_ , Arthur sends, his call easily overpowering the weak connection between Freya and I. _They're attacking the eastern side, it might be a diversion again. Hurry!_

I jump to my feet, startling the sick soldiers around me as I run out. "An attack," I explain to Borus over my shoulder as I run out, silently cursing that I currently have no access to any magic. Being able to send myself there would come in handy right about now.

Arthur is climbing onto a saddle near our tent when I run past him. "Merlin!" he calls, and I turn back, relieved I won't have to run the rest of the way. "No chain mail, I see," he points out testily as he helps me swing onto the horse behind him.

"Chain mail would hardly protect me from fever," I quip back. Arthur kicks his horse into a steady trot, joining the other gathering knights on their horses as we head towards the field from yesterday. Likely this attack is just a move to test for weak spots; Camelot can't want a siege with Spring only just beginning. They'd starve out in weeks.

I supposedly should be wearing some sort of armour in the daytime. This is a war, after all. But it's little defense against the dragons and Camelot sorcerers who attack. Arthur watches my back against the Camelot knights and regular weapons armour could combat, and I fight to keep him and the rest of my squadron safe from the harmful magic. No easy task, but no easier with chain mail on.

When we stop, right at the edge of the gained land from yesterday's battle, Arthur and I slide off and immediately grab hands. "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð," he says, and I feel a euphoric rush at the amount of power that Arthur always returns before a battle. Enhanced sight, ability to teleport, flame and light, ability to fight and attack. General commands giving my magic freedom to twist and shape how it will inside me. To follow the commands only, of course, but at my discrepancy.

Almost like, at least for a little while, my magic belongs to me again.

No battle starts, however. The skirmish in the east turns out to be just that; a skirmish. A test, like I thought. Perhaps yesterday's battle was the last we'll fight. Perhaps the generals of Camelot's army are wondering why we haven't drove them into the citadel yet.

The war is almost over.

I'm not sure whether to be glad or not.

The days pass sunny and bright and silent on the front, Uther's arrival imminent. Gwaine, according to Arthur, has been questioned by the war council and seems entirely compliant. I stay busy with the sick, keeping a special eye on Elyan as he goes through the motions of the fever. Sickness, then the white rash, then delirium, then sores all over the body. After that, it seems the men either die or pull through.

The ones that die start to stink like rotting flesh at least a day before they actually do. Elyan, so far, hasn't.

I don't see Freya once.

 _You're scaring me_ , I tell her on the fourth day of her absence.

 _I'm sorry. I'm alright. Leon, he's just_ , she tries to explain. _He won't tell me exactly. But something's wrong._

 _I can tell that much._

 _I'm_ fine _. Just confined in my tent. It's a little nice, actually._

Later, eating supper with Arthur and the rest of the squadron—besides Freya, again—Sefa sits down close at my left. I don't think too much of it till she whispers in my ear, halfway through the meal, "Mordred asked after you."

I whip my neck to look at her, eyes wide.

"Galahad volunteered me to look after him, till Lord Uther arrives," she says, voice small but confident. "He wants to speak with you."

I hardly taste the rest of my food, making an excuse as early as possible to leave the group. Mordred hasn't left the tent where the ceremony took place, days ago; two knights stand outside it's door, though they look rather relaxed, chatting with one another.

"I need to speak with the recruit," I say as I approach. "On behalf of my guardian, Sir Arthur."

They don't question it. The tent inside is dark, lit by a single, tiny candle on the ground. A thin blanket is laid out to my right, the rest of the tent bare. Mordred is sitting against one of its poles. His small hands are tied in front of him, but he seems otherwise unrestrained.

Unless one counted the thick lines patterned into his forearms.

"Mordred," I say, because he's staring off at the opposite tent wall, not noticing my arrival. The boy blinks, but doesn't look my way.

 _Emrys._

 _You wanted to speak with me?_ I ask, and he blinks again, round eyes distant.

 _Morgause wanted us to leave_ , he starts without preamble. _I decided to stay._

 _You pulled from her before she transported awa_ y, I agree, remembering that in the commotion. _Why?_

His eyes flicker to me, finally, though I feel a bit self-conscious under their scrutiny.

 _Lord Uther cannot conquer Camelot_ , he says. I fight the urge to snort.

 _Yes, of course not—_

 _But King Balinor cannot rule Camelot either._

My mouth shuts with a click, not expecting that. I stare at Mordred, trying to understand what he's getting at. _Because he's mad?_

Mordred smiles that strange, small grin at me.

 _We need a new king_ , he replies simply.

I wait for more, but Mordred just keeps looking at me, hardly blinking. _How is any of this related? What did you stay here for?_ I demand, taking a step forward. My burning frustration freezes quickly, however, when Mordred stands.

 _To destroy the claim. With your help, not Morgause's_ , he says.

I stare at him, dumbstruck.

 _I recognized you as Emrys immediately_ , Mordred continues. _Morgause would not listen when I told her. But she will see—we can't win this war without you._

 _We?_ I repeat, though I'm almost sure of the answer now.

Mordred confirms: _The Innate._ He sits back down against the pole, eyes going distant.

It still explains so little. Why Mordred, why now, who the Innate are, how they plan to win a war against both the mad king and Uther. But, like Arthur suspected, their goal does seem to revolve around destroying the claim.

One question presses on me, however, more than the rest:

 _Why did Morgause think she could break the claim?_ I ask. For a minute I'm afraid Mordred won't answer. But he does.

 _She found its origins. Maybe even its weakness: Blood._

Blood?

 _Merlin, where the hell are you?_ Arthur's voice interrupts in my mind, and for the first time I wish I could simply cut him out.

 _NOT NOW._

 _YES now, you have to get here this moment_ , he presses in an obnoxiously rude tone, though he's also sending waves of anxiety and worry and fear. I grit my teeth, turning my back on Mordred and exiting the tent with a stomping gait.

 _This had better be—_

 _Lord Uther and his company have arrived._

I'm supposed to be waiting there in the line as the warlord enters camp. Not standing there, however—kneeling, next to Arthur. A show of respect, for the soon-to-be-king. It's been that way every spring when he arrives.

I wonder if the punishment would be worth not showing at all. Uther might not even notice, if it was simply another recruit. But me? His son's, his greatest weapon besides perhaps Nimueh, his pride in slaying dragons? He would notice.

 _How close?_ I ask, running towards the west side where they usually arrive.

 _Here._

And then I can see them, Uther dismounting already, appropriate cheers of welcome coming from the assembled knights. Arthur's eyes find mine just before I join the crowd, and I slip to his side and kneel.

 _Any chance he didn't notice?_ I ask, dark humour again. But then I'm suddenly blasted with a rush of shock, devastation, and pain from Arthur that makes me glad I'm already on my knees. _Arthur? What is it?!_

He won't—can't?—respond. Against my better judgment I look up, unable to fathom what could have cause such a reaction. And then I see exactly what's wrong.

Uther is helping Morgana down from a horse, and she actually needs it. Her feet are unsure as they hit the ground, arms reaching out for something to steady on. She keeps reaching, fingers outstretched, as if to feel what's in front of her, because her eyes are dull, unmoving, gray-ish over the green.

Morgana is blind.

* * *

 **A/N: Another cliffhanger! Not even subtle, haha. Please point out any errors you see, I didn't get to look at this _nearly_ as much as I'd planned and hoped to. Lots of personal things just happened! If you want more info, I'll put it on my author page. BASICALLY I have to finish and post this fic by Jan 11th, which will be cutting it pretty close.**

 **Thank you all so much for your reviews, I truly am spoiled by your thoughtful comments. Something I noticed: a LOT of you guessed who Gwaine and/or Morgause were last chapter, despite no naming names on my part. Way to go. I did not expect that. Again, any reviewers with accounts will get a sneak peek in reward! Can't wait to hear from you!**

 **catherine10: The main characters aren't going to really have romances. It just never worked itself into my story. So, while you will see close relationships in Innate, no kissing and blablah stuff happens. Hope that puts your worries to rest!**

 **FairyGoatmother: Hahaha well get an account and I can guarantee one! Glad the narrative style is coming off well so far, I was worried about that. You totally guessed right on Gwaine and Morgause! I'm really impressed. Thanks for reviewing!**

 **DeLurker: Unfortunately I can't give a sneak peek to guests! I wish! BUT here's your update, haha. Glad you're liking it so far :D Thanks for your review, I really appreciate it.**


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